Ivan Kosin

July 30

Malcolm hadn't come home that night. Ivan knew this because he had lain awake, waiting for footsteps outside the door that never came. Sometime after midnight, there was a timid tap on the door and then someone - who proved to be George - let himself in.

He hadn't said much; he had just crawled into the bed beside Ivan in the darkened room and apologized. Ivan had halfway listened; he wanted the voice more than he wanted the words. George curled up against his back and slipped an arm around him and just held him like that, with the thin cotton sheet laid over both of them and the window open to get a night breeze. Ivan had cried silently for hours.

Ivan woke sometime in the middle of the night to find George lying on his back beside him, the weight of his touch gone from Ivan's side. The younger carrier stirred, missing the comfort, and George had recognized this as wakefulness and spoken.
"They're not going to let you see him," he said, in a tone that was almost regretful. "Not until this is over."
For a moment, Ivan was disoriented - until what was over? The possibility had not occurred to him yet - and in truth, he could not fully conceive of it still - that Malcolm might be in some kind of trouble for this. For what? For Ivan's mistake? For Ivan's foolishness? It made him sick and achy to think that. Ivan felt un-right; trauma, he supposed. He felt shaky and off-kilter and queer and just not there.
Although he had never seen it done before, he wondered if perhaps the Manor held some perverse responsibility over husbands' heads so that they were punished for the sins of their carriers. Ivan hoped that was not the case. The only thing worse than taking a beating was to have another take it for you, he felt.
"Until what's over?" he asked George, his George, his beloved friend who knew everything, who had all the answers, and who would always give them to Ivan if only he would ask.
"The trial."
Now Ivan wished he hadn't heard this. If he had sent another innocent man to trial...
"What trial?"
George remained on his back, but turned his head to look at Ivan in the moonlight.
"What he did to you wasn't right, Ivan. The way he treated you wasn't right."
Ivan shook his head, not comprehending.
"But he only spanked me." he argued, pitifully, wanting George to listen to him and accept it and make it all right. Make the night end and Malcolm come back and the party just go on without him and no one remember anything at all. "And it was just because I ruined the party."
"No." George said, fiercely. "He beat you. And he did it because he lost control. They don't like that here. One thing a Manor man should never, ever do is lose control."

Ivan felt a sickness welling up in the pit of his empty stomach.
"Well, what - what are they going to do to him?"
George turned his gaze back to the ceiling fan.
"I don't know." he said, and Ivan's heart skipped a beat.

~:~

Malcolm hadn't quite understood when Keith Vance had come up behind him after Ivan's departure and grasped his elbow.
"Malcolm?" he'd said, calmly. "You need to come with me."
Malcolm had frowned at him, bewildered and still angry and only now feeling embarrassment and a slight twinge of regret.
"Come with you? Where? I need to go deal with my carrier."
Keith had given him a wan smile.
"You need to go inside. We need to talk."
Malcolm had looked up then and seen that the other men were advancing on him. He turned quickly to the side; a carrier standing some distance away jumped. He turned sharply again and another did the same thing. Were they frightened of him? Why?
Tom Davies was approaching him from the front.
"You need to come inside now, Malcolm." he said, firmly. He was holding something in his hands; a rope. Where had he gotten a rope?
Malcolm cast around again. Ivan was gone, inside. Out of his sight, which was a good thing, because even the sight of his carrier might be enough to send him into a rage right now. And where was that other one? The kitchen bitch? Tom Gaspar was gone as well.
Someone caught a hold of Malcolm's other arm; it was Jake Bratton.
"Let's go, Mal." he said, and his voice was angry, but calm.
Malcolm got the sudden, stupid idea to pull away, and he succeeded in getting one arm free before the other men swarmed him and he was dragged, face first into the ground.

~

He had told them he wanted out. They had told him there was no such thing.
"You came here because you needed us, Malcolm. You stay until that's no longer the case."
Mal shook his head, really angry by this point, no longer intimidated or afraid, but coasting high on his own pure rage.
"This is illegal! You can't hold an officer of the law against his will! I will report - "
"You'll report nothing to anyone." Tom Davies had spoken up, quickly. "You can be sure of that."
Malcolm had tried to test his bonds; he was forced standing, arms and legs spread and bound. He reviewed his training in his head and came up with a few scenarios for escape.
"Let me go now, you sick motherfuckers." he swore. Keith Vance shook his head.
"Just you?" he asked, and the absence of Malcolm's mention of his carrier made his face burn with embarrassment.
"What do you want with me?" he demanded.
Tom Davies raised a brow.
"To teach you. To help you. To fix you, essentially."
"I'm not broken; I don't need no fixin', you sons-of-bitches, let me go!!"
They had ignored him and wheeled a cart up behind him. It irritated and then angered him that he couldn't see what it was. Tom Gaspar, the owner of that insufferable carrier who had caused this whole damn scene, stepped forward. Malcolm wanted to lunge for him, but knew that the effort would be futile. He settled for glaring instead.
Gaspar shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Mal, but we can't let you go."
Malcolm, eyes black with rage and hair wild again, swore and tested his bonds, then settled back.
"Why not?!" he demanded.
Tom Gaspar looked him directly in his face and shook his head sadly.
"Because you're going to kill that carrier of yours," he said. "I know you will."

Malcolm was so taken aback that for a moment, he went slack. Keith Vance took the advantage of that moment to lay the first lick of the whip across Malcolm's back. He screamed and arched and fell back.
"Fuck! Fuck! You crazy motherfuckers!"
Tom Gaspar watched impassively.
"Let's talk, Malcolm."
Malcolm stared at him as if he had grown two heads.
"He's whippin' my ass and you want me to talk?!"
Tom blinked.
"Yes."
A crack, and it fell again. Malcolm screamed. Tom went on.
"You're failing us, Malcolm."
Mal blinked at the man in front of him; his brain tried to make sense of everything that was going on, but time and memories were becoming jumbled. The party, the cooking, gifts, fighting, Ivan gone, then this basement dungeon, for how long? Hours?
"We told you when you got here that there would be tests. And now he's testing you, and you're failing."
What? Malcolm couldn't make sense of this.
"Who?!" he yelped.
"Ivan." Tom Gaspar answered, and another lick fell. Malcolm hissed this time, and swore and shouted and arced up on his toes.
"Ah fuck!" Malcolm felt in a muddle, but he tried to comprehend; if he could understand enough to just get out of here, then maybe - "He's testing me? And I'm failing. I'm failing because of the party? Because I can't get him right - because I didn't train him good enough. Because I let him act out."
Tom Gaspar shook his head in obvious frustration.
"No, Malcolm, you're failing because you acted out."
Malcolm's brow furrowed in utter confusion.
"What? I didn't - "
"The training isn't about Ivan!" Tom Gaspar finally snapped, irritatedly. "It's about you."
Malcolm stared at him.
"The notebooks, the lessons - those don't go to Ivan, do they?" Gaspar demanded. "The weekly meetings - we don't sit down with him, do we? The constant assessment - that's not of him, is it?? So why would you think it was Ivan who we think is the problem?"
Gaspar came closer, and in his walk, his anger was evident.
"You haven't learned anything in the time you've been here, have you? No firmness, no patience, no self-control. You snap at him, you get exasperated, you get frustrated, and then you lose it all and beat him senseless before a public audience. Well, let me teach you this. This is your lesson to learn, Malcolm Lawdon: when you lose control, people get hurt. Carriers get hurt. Ivan gets hurt. Ivan gets damaged, and we can only hope that your handiwork is not irreparable."
Malcolm felt a punch of guilt in his belly, but he squashed it with anger at being treated like this. His wrists began to numb a little, and he wiggled his fingers to get the feeling back. Another strike fell, and he twisted and cried out.
"This is not the way to teach me! I can't fucking learn like this - I - you're beating me! Let me down, you sick fucks, and I'll go upstairs and see if he's alright and then we'll get the hell out of here and I won't ever have reason to lay a hand on him again." he finished in a rush. "I promise. I promise. I promise."

Jake Bratton, who had until this point, been silent in the shadows, stepped forward.
"If we let you go now, Malcolm," he said, sadly, "You'll most certainly hurt him again." he shook his head. "I'm sorry."
Malcolm panted for breath and then the next lash fell.
"Ahhh! Fuck!" he licked his lips. "OK. OK. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
From the side, Gaspar shook his head.
"You're not, yet - but you will be."
"I won't do it again." he promised. "I'll never touch him again." Behind him, he heard the clink of something metal and he felt dread well up within him.
"You're a danger, Malcolm. To yourself and to your carrier."
"Just let me - just let me see him."
"No." Gaspar said, moving back in front of him. "Not until we're done."

~:~